


Katri's Quell

by mellarksbakery



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games
Genre: Additional - Freeform, Alternate Games, F/M, In Universe, Prequel, Quarter Quell, Quarter Quell Headcanon, new characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:05:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellarksbakery/pseuds/mellarksbakery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>❝Now we honour our Third Quarter Quell, on the 75th Anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol.❞</p><p>Set 51 years before Katniss Everdeen sets foot in the arena is the story of Katri Jackson, the fifteen year old tribute from District 9, and the real reason why the Quarter Quell was created</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is some sort of a prequel for The Hunger Games in that it explains why the Quarter Quell was invented in the first place, or at least my version of that.

When I wake up, someone is screaming. With a start, I realise that it's me.

I try to go back to sleep but worry is twisting my stomach like an angry hand. In all of District 9, children between the ages of twelve and eighteen are probably experiencing the same thing.

I know compared to some I shouldn't have to worry, my older brother, Cirrus, has his name in the bowl almost 50 times. He refused to let any of us take the tesserae, determined to carry the weight of our family on his heavy shoulders. I don't know what we'll do next year, when he's too old to take the risk for us.

There are five of us old enough to enter. Cirrus is the oldest at 18. My twin brothers are 16 and there is less than a year between me and my sister: we are both 15. Despite our similar ages, we've never been close, my siblings and I.

When I was younger my sister used to sing me songs to help me sleep, my brothers taught me games and kept me company and Cirrus of course takes our tesserae. But if you were to ask me my sister's favourite colour, or the name of Cirrus's friends, or where my brothers get the flatbread they bring home every Sunday, I wouldn't know the answers.

My hand stretches across the worn material of my blanket and I roll onto my side. I can hear my sister Rye's low snores from across the room - I'm surprised she didn't stir at my scream - but my brothers are gone. Probably out in the fields with my father, raking in the seeds of grain that spread across the lands of district 9. All men they can spare will work in the fields until twelve o' clock, when we all must be lined up ready for the reaping.

Reaping. Just the very thought churns my stomach. It could be me, or worse, Cirrus. Out of all my siblings I'm closest to him, and he's always looked out for me. Making sure I get enough to eat, sorting out school bullies, keeping me as safe as he can from the reaping. He's the glue that holds our brittle family together, quelling my father's rage and my mother's tears, stopping the scraps that break out between us. He's strong as well, working in the fields. My father says he thinks Cirrus will get a good job once he finishes school, get a good wife and family...if he doesn't get reaped.

I stay in bed, trying to ignore my scared thoughts, keeping them at bay with wishful thinking. I try to soak all the warmth from my thin blanket, but I can feel the stone floor at my back. Most children on the reaping day are allowed to sleep in, but I doubt they do.

My mother walks in later, shaking us awake. She looks at us, and already I can see the gleam of tears in her eyes. Her face is pinched with worry and sadness. We eat in silence. In our district, food is scarce, but not as bad as in the outer lying districts.

Our industry is grain, so our food mainly consists of that. Our breakfast is usually a spoonful of sludgy grey porridge. Normally one of us goes without. We hardly ever have meat, no one in the district does. Meals usually consist of rice or bread. The food is plain and boring, but filling enough. It is the sort of food you survive off, not thrive on.

I dress in a white blouse and a skirt that once belonged to my sister, freshly washed. My sister helps me twist my hair into an updo. My sister and mother have always complemented my hair, saying it reminds them of the girls from the bedtime tales of our district. It falls in a thick curtain to my waist, and is golden blonde coloured. Personally I'd prefer it chopped off, it's far too thick and heavy, and normally I wear it twisted into a ponytail. I have the look of our district: pale hair and paler skin, with hazel coloured eyes too large in my face.

We walk to the square in silence. When we arrive, my mother grasps both our hands in hers, kisses us on the forehead, and then says goodbye. She stands with my father, who waves us off with a shaking hand. My sister and I walk towards the table where we sign in. Then we split up to wait. Before we leave, she pulls me into her arms.

"Good luck, Katri." She whispers in my ear. She pulls away quickly and turns on her heel; I watch her until her blonde head bobs out of sight, and then I head over to my group of friends. They welcome me into their circle with shaking hands and voices that crackle in fear. We link hands and wait quietly.

There's a nervous feel to the air, it hangs down and smothers us all. The only movement is the shuffle of people on stage, the mayor and Capitol escort and Victors all sat on plastic chairs. Our mayor is a small man, with a round face and oily hair. However, he looks normal compared to the escort from the Capitol.

She's a woman, with long hair of a vivid red colour down to her knees. It's braided into ropes decorated with feathers and beads. The worst is her arms. Even in the cold chill, her arms are bare to showcase the crazy designs on them. Scarlet rubies and glistening emeralds are embedded in her skin in swirly designs, which I can see sparkle even from this distance.

I stand with the other fifteen year olds near the back, and I have to stretch my neck to properly see the stage. The victors sit quietly, only four of them, and have pained expressions on their faces. Finally the mayor stands, and shuffles over to the microphone. He tells us a little about how our country, Panem, was formed. I try to pay attention, but we hear the same spiel every year, and I'm so nervous I swear I'm going to be sick.

Finally he finishes, and the Capitol woman stands to take the microphone. Her heels are ginormous, making her tower above everyone else. Her clothes are loud, in neon greens and pinks. They help none with my stomach. In her affected accent, she grins brightly at us all.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour! Now, the time has come to select one male and one female tribute for the annual Twenty-Third Hunger Games!" The crowd's response is unenthusiastic. She just grins again, although now it looks more of a grimace. "As always, Ladies first!" she warbles, teetering over the large glass bowl and snatching up a slip. She hobbles over back to the microphone, and unfolds it.

My breath hitches in my throat, and all I can think is there are fifteen slips in the bowl with my name on it, and twenty one with Rye's. My heart is beating so fast, and there's a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"And our tribute is... Katri Jackson!"

My whole world slows down. All I can hear is the thud of my heartbeat, and the gasp of intake from my friends. Their arms encircle me, their tears drip onto my shoulders, but I quickly shrug them off and make my way to the stage. Their tears are the embodiment of what I'm feeling, and if I stay any longer I'll cry too.

The crowd parts for me, with fearful looks on their faces. But there's relief there as well. Relief at being spared another year. I pass my sister, with tears streaming down her face, my older brothers looking shocked. I stumble to a halt when I'm in line with Cirrus. His eyes are wide, fists clenched. He's standing on the edge, and he ducks under the rope and folds his arms around me.

"Be brave, Katri." He whispers in my ear, before the peacekeepers grab his arms and force him back under the rope. I steady myself, willing myself not to cry.

I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry... I chant to myself over and over. I don't want to be singled out as a weakling, someone who's an easy target. I walk up the steps towards the woman, flanked by peacekeepers, their eyes trained on me warily. Like I'd have any chance of escape.

She asks for volunteers, as per usual, but I don't expect any. I know Cirrus would if he could, but only other girls can volunteer for me. Even now he's stuck there surrounded by peacekeepers, his eyes gleaming with anger. There's a thin smattering of half-hearted applause, and then I'm ushered out of the way when she walks over to the boys bowl.

Grasping a slip, she heads back to the microphone and I'm barely about to wish for my brothers safety when she calling out the name "Alec Edenthaw!" The name doesn't sound familiar, but when the cameras find him a there's a faint recognition there. He has wavy brown hair that falls across his forehead, and is tall with wide, strong shoulders.

He looks braver then I feel, and makes his way steadily towards the stage. He's a few years above me in school, I recognise him from the halls between classes and assemblies. I feel bad when relief courses through me; at least it's no one from my family, and my friends are spared. My parents couldn't handle two of us being chosen.

The mayor reads the dreary treaty of treason, and I try to appear strong and fearless. I'm probably not fooling anyone. When he orders me and Alec to shake hands, his eyes are kind but afraid. Then we're shepherded into the Justice Building. We're led into separate rooms, which are stuffed with luxurious items. Squashy sofas and plush carpets and patterned wallpaper make it the prettiest room I've ever been in. I sink into the sofa, expecting to feel grief and sadness, but all I feel is numb.

A few minutes later, my parents and siblings burst through the door. I'm swallowed by their hugs and words. They settle around me on chairs. Rye puts her head in my lap, and my mother wraps her arms around me tightly. My brothers take my hands, and my father studies my face like he's determined to remember it.

No one assures me I will be fine, encourages me I could win. There's no hope, only a choking sadness. These are our final goodbyes.

I stroke their faces, squeeze their hands, and wipe tears. When the minutes are up, they are escorted from the room, and I barely have time to memorise my last glimpse of them when my friends hurry in. They also wrap me in crushing hugs, talking over each other hurriedly, trying to cram in the years of friendship I will miss.

A few others come and wish me goodbye, good luck. I say so many goodbyes that my head and heart hurt. My friend takes off a bracelet woven from bright cloth. She ties it around my wrist tightly. I promise I'll wear it. Then I'm left alone again, until a peacekeeper appears and leads me to the station.

I see Alec, and his eyes are slightly red, making me believe that he's been crying. I think of all I know about him. He's usually surrounded by a group of friends, and his family is close. Having just said goodbye to my family, I know what he's going through.

The cameras zoom in to our faces, and I try to remain indifferent. Alec does the same, barely acknowledging them. We step onto the train carefully. My last view of home is our tiny train station, and the men insistently shoving cameras in our faces.


	2. Chapter Two

The train is even more beautiful than the room where I said my final goodbyes to the people I loved, glistening with chandeliers and marble. Food is piled high on the tables, but I can't stand the quiet of it all. It’s just me and Alec, and we have nothing to say.

We stand in silence for several seconds, before the carriage doors slide open, and in saunters the Capitol woman, who is even more surreal up close. Her maniacal grin in like a sharks, and it hurts to look at. Faint tattoos of glittering gold replace her eyebrows. I wonder why anyone would want to look this way. Her grin is back, and it’s even more gruesome up close.

“Oh, I thought someone would’ve shown you to your rooms.” She sounds put out. “Well, I’m Andromeda. I’m your district escort!” She says the last part in the same tone you would use with a small child, and it irritates me. “Feel free to help yourself to any food,” She adds, although hurriedly announces that dinner will be in a few hours when Alec reaches for a bread roll, stopping him in his tracks.

She disappears as quickly as she came, and we’re left alone again. I glance at the food table. It is piled high with decorated miniature cakes, baskets of bread dotted with seeds and nuts, fruit in bowls and clear glasses of colourful juice. I realise how thirsty I am, and hurry over and pour a glass of the shimmering liquid; I gulp it down in two swallows, and fumble to fill my glass with more. Feeling Alec’s eyes on me, I step back, and sip my juice. The quiet is unbearable, so I say the only thing I can think of.

“It must be great.” He looks at me with confused eyes. “To have so much food, whenever you want it.” I carry on, gesturing to the table. He nods, and helps himself to his own glass, pouring it more delicately than I did. He takes a bread roll tentatively, as if waiting for Andromeda to return and squawk at him about dinner like some sort of angry bird. He studies it for a few seconds before biting down into it. His eyes widen with surprise.

“You have to try this!” he mumbles through his mouthful, and throws me a roll. I take a bite. He’s right, it’s delicious. And suddenly it hits me that we have so much food and we can have anything we want. And then I’m at the table, hands reaching greedily for things.

“I wouldn’t do that, If I were you.” Says a voice. I jump, surprised, and then whirl round. It’s one of the victors, standing watching us with an amused expression on his face. I swallow my mouthful; it doesn’t taste nearly as good as before.

“Why not?” Alec asks, beside me. The victor curls his mouth into a smile.

“You’ll spoil dinner. The rich stuff is the worst; it tastes too exotic for us.” I understand what he means because I’m used to simple, plain foods. Now that he says it, my stomach feels like it’s trying to push the food back up. I look at Alec and see he is looking a bit sick as well. “Come with me, I’ll show you to your rooms.” The man turns on his heel and heads into a different carriage, leaving me and Alec no choice but to follow.

Whilst we walk, I try to place him. I don’t remember his games or when he was a tribute from reruns. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, so his games must’ve been from before I was born. He was probably reaped in the same groups as my mother and father.

He leads us down the train towards the end, pointing to two doors opposite each other. “Your room,” he says to me, pointing at one door, “and yours,” he gestures to Alec. “Dinner’s at six in the carriage beyond the one you were just in. Don’t be late, or Andromeda gets annoyed.” Then he leaves.

I’m about to let myself into my room, when Alec asks me if I know how to tell the time. This thought burns my cheeks. I was never taught, at school we just learn basic maths and reading and writing, and about grain, it's production process and the steps involved. We knew when to work by alarms and bells, and ate when it was morning and evening. No one I knew owned a watch, or even a clock in their homes.

“No.” I whisper, ashamed. “Do you?”

“Yes, my mother taught me. Do you want me to tell you when it’s time?” He asks his voice cool and polite.

“Yes, thank you.” My voice comes out equally polite and controlled, and I let myself into my room. It’s beautiful, decorated in shades of calming blue. The bed looks comfy and large, and the wardrobes are stocked with various clothes.

I sit down in an ornately carved wooden chair in front of a large mirror, and brush my hair out of the plaits my sister worked so hard to do. I tie it up into a loose ponytail, strands fluttering down onto my cheeks. I change into comfy black trousers and a loose long sleeved shirt, and then I lie on the bed and trace patterns on the wallpaper with my eyes until Alec knocks at my door.

We walk to the train carriage in silence, but it’s almost companionable. I don’t feel the need to talk. Sat around the table are district 9’s previous victors, drinking wine and talking loudly. Andromeda sits amongst them reservedly as they rowdily welcome us. We sit down, and are served our meal.

For starters is a creamy mushroom soup that slides down my throat soothingly. It is served with hot, crispy bread smeared with melting butter. I slurp it down hungrily, mopping up the leftovers with the bread. Then we’re served meat –real meat! - With roasted potatoes and thinly sliced carrots, coated in gravy. I practically inhale the whole thing, and am finished way before anyone else.

The victors are chatting casually as they eat, and Alec is shovelling forkfuls into his mouth. He catches me watching, and blushes red, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Andromeda is picking daintily at her food, but then she must be used to this luxury. The food is taken away by silent waiters in white cotton tunics. When pudding – a delicious cake iced with chocolate frosting – is finished, we go to watch the reapings.

Names and faces blur together as they show kids being called out from all the districts. All the careers are of course volunteers, big and strong and lethal looking. The kids from the poorer districts are all skinnier, with narrow shoulders and sunken eyes. They shuffle towards the stage with the surety of people walking to the gallows: they know their sentence, as I do mine.

Most of the tributes are around my age, the youngest being just twelve, a boy from district 8. He looks terrified as he mounts the stage, his eyes flashing with fear. He’s tiny, looking more like ten than twelve. It tugs at my heart, makes me feel sick. But I can’t afford pity, when this boy’s survival means my own certain death.

And then it’s us, all of district 9 packed into the square. Andromeda’s calling my name, and I watch myself make my way to the stage. They show Cirrus hugging me, but not the part where he escapes under the rope. The commentators don’t quite know what to make of that. I look very fragile on the stage. I’m easily forgettable, just like the other tributes I’ve watched so far. I think of them, on their own trains with their own victors. Are they watching the reapings, same as us? I wonder what they think of me.

On screen Andromeda is calling Alec’s name, and I’m watching him walk up –almost confidently- whilst real life Alec is sat next to me, his fists clenched tight. My own fingers itch to smooth his out into a flat palm, the way my mother used to do for me. I turn my attention back to the screen, where Alec and I are shaking hands. If I were a tribute on another train, he is someone I would take note of. 

The tributes from districts 10, 11 and 12 are all blurring together in my mind when the victor who took us to our rooms earlier speaks.

“Well, you’ve seen what you’re up against. Anyone impress you in particular?” He says, in a voice that’s pleasant, yet beneath that razor sharp. It hits me that I’m in a carriage full of killers. I turn to face Alec instinctively and see he’s already looking at me, like it’s us against them. Like we’re a team. I glance away, feeling strangely flustered.

“Well…the tributes from 1, 2 and 4 all look…prepared.” Alec says. The victors laugh.

“Well, surely you expected that.” One chortles, a pretty woman who looks in her mid-twenties. She’s district 9’s most recent victor; she won when she was eighteen, when I was nine. I know her name’s Gelsey, but that’s all. Some of the other victors snigger, looking at us like we’re meat ready for the butchers. But most just look pitiful, and that’s even worse.

They think we have no chance, no way of survival. My face heats up, but this time it’s nothing to do with Alec. There’s a burning in my stomach, like someone’s set fire to my insides. Strangely, it feels good, makes me feel…powerful. Strong.

“I don’t know what to expect. This time yesterday I was getting ready for bed back in district 9, and now I’m about to take part in a competition which is basically a death sentence. So forgive us if the last thing on our minds was how we were going to be killed by a Capitol lapdog wielding a sword.” I hear myself say, and my words carry a chill that seems to settle on even Gelsey. The victor who showed us to our rooms looks up with a glint in his eye.

“What was your name again?” he asks.

“Katri Jackson.” I say. The victor looks at me with fire in his grey eyes, a smile playing across his lips.

“Well, Katri Jackson. Capitol Lapdog? I like that. No offence, Andromeda. And you’re right. I didn’t expect you to notice much about the other tributes, but here are a few tips. The careers aren’t to be underestimated. Ever. They train almost every day from their thirteenth birthday, and know about seventy different ways to kill you with a piece of rope. They are experts in handling weapons. But their style is all offence, no defence. Remember that. They rely on their skill at the initial cornucopia battle to get them their supplies, and the gifts off of their sponsors – and they will get sponsors - to keep them alive. The boy from 1 looks particularly ruthless. Now, this is a lot of information to take on, but try to remember what I said. You too Arnold-”

“It’s Alec actually,” Alec cuts in, but the victor just ploughs on.

“Whatever. Think that over tonight. You’ve got something Katri; I’m just not sure what yet. You look tough, and seem smart enough. You’re pretty and that’ll help with sponsors. Can you use any weapons?”

“No.” I reply feeling a bit scared of this fact. I have no skills that will help me survive. No advantages.

“Oh well, we’ll fix that in training. Now, when we get to the Capitol, you’re going to be taken to the remake centre to be, well, remade. It won’t be fun, but it’ll help with your looks, which will help with what I can get you in terms of sponsors. You’ll meet your stylists. Don’t complain, don’t whinge or be a brat. It just makes them angry, right Gelsey?” he says this last part with a smirk. I see Gelsey flush red.

“Shut up.” She shoots back, and he just laughs.

“I was Gelsey’s mentor in her games. I’ve been around for a while, I know my stuff. I know what strategies will keep you alive, and what’ll leave you deader than dead. Now, what about you Archie-”

“It’s Alec.” He cuts in, this time with an icy chill lacing his voice. I glance over and am brought up short by his expression.

His features are arranged in an iron mask. Alec will not be overlooked, he will not be underestimated. He is fighting to be recognised, and therefore he is fighting to kill me. “I’m strong, and I’m fast, and if one of the weaker tributes attacks me I’d probably win – if I had a knife. And Katri was wrong earlier, we do know how to use weapons. We know how to use scythes-"

"Farming scythes," I cut in, feeling uneasy.

"It's better than nothing." He gives me a long searching look, as if to say what are you doing? "And I don’t think we should underestimate the other districts. That girl from 10 looked especially crafty.”

The victors look at him with renewed anticipation; some of them wear smiles that remind me that I’m in a room of cold-blooded killers. I shiver slightly.

“Well,” The male victor who seems to be the most talkative says. “Well, well, well. Maybe you’re both not as useless as I thought,” He laughs darkly. “I’m Lugh, by the way. I’m sure the pleasures all mine, considering the fact that if you hadn’t been reaped you wouldn’t have met me. You’re right Alec, the girl from 10 struck me as a little…well, she seems like she’ll be good competition. You two should get some sleep anyway. Rest up, and let us grownups chat,”

I stand, feeling almost as if this extra information has added weight to me. We say goodnight, although most of the victors don’t acknowledge us. It seems only Lugh and a few others are paying much attention. As we walk back to our rooms I marvel at the richness of the train, running my hand across the cushy wallpaper.

“So…those are our mentors.” Alec says conversationally. I look over my shoulder at him; see the smile in his eyes.

“They’re a little…intense?” I reply, which earns a chuckle. But his laugh dims to a frown, and his tone becomes urgent. “I just kept thinking, all of them were murderers, and they’re telling us how to kill other people, like they’re doing us a huge favour and…” he trails off. I nod, because I’d been thinking the same thing, and because I don’t really know how to respond.

“I think they like you more than they like me.” I tell him, thinking of how they sat up straighter when he started talking about what his strengths were.

“Yeah, well… That Lugh guy gives me the creeps.” He says, shrugging nonchalantly. But I remember his face in the moments after they began paying attention to me, the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. Alec is fighting to survive…which means he is fighting for my death. Instinctively I walk a little faster, putting a little more distance between us. 

There’s only one winner after all, and if Lugh and Gelsey and the others think it could be Alec then… why would they bother helping me? This thought makes me feel sick, that people from our district could turn their backs on me.

I think about Alec, how he is strong and good-looking. If he learns how to use a weapon more powerful than a knife then he has a better shot of winning then I do. And I don’t want to lose. I really, really don’t. I realise we’re standing outside our rooms, and I go in without saying a word to Alec.

The games are starting, and there’s no room for friendship.


	3. Chapter 3

In the quiet emptiness of my room I pull off my clothes, dropping them on the floor as if it's their fault I'm here. I glower at them for a few seconds before I remember they're clothes and don't even know I'm glowering at them anyway.

I grab a pair of cotton pyjamas and throw them on before collapsing into bed. I'm thinking I should turn off the lights, when suddenly I'm fast asleep.

That night my dreams are confusing and gruesome. Horrific scenes from previous games collide in my mind with peaceful memories of my family and friends. A brick controlled by a hand sticky with scarlet blood crashes into my sleeping sister's skull, my brothers are torn into fleshy chunks by a hideous mutation, my friends are slaughtered by evil looking weapons glinting in the sunlight in front of the golden cornucopia. I am running down the plush corridor of the train, behind which every door is the sound of screaming, blood seeping like a river across the carpet. I am running towards my parents silhouettes, but when they open their eyes, they are the cruel, snake like eyes of the President.

I wake up to an insistent banging on the door. It's Andromeda, and she's telling me to get up, now.

"We've nearly arrived!" she trills, and this sends me stumbling around my room searching for clothes. I just pick up the skirt and blouse I was wearing yesterday, they seem clean enough. I yank them on before rushing out the door and smack into Alec, who is emerging from his room. He smiles at me, but there's a slight chill in the air. I remember my wordless exit last night, and how in a few days' time we will be fighting against each other in order to survive. I don't return his smile, settling instead for a coolly polite nod.

Instead I walk in silence down to the carriage where we ate our dinner last night. Some of the victors are already there, including Lugh, who smiles at me. This smile I return. I don't care for this arrogant killer, but he is my best chance of survival. I walk up to a long table groaning under the weight of the food it is holding up. Everything looks delicious. I take a sample of at least half the dishes, because I could probably do with gaining some weight between now and the Games.

I make my way back to the table, and pour myself a glass of juice. It slips down my throat sweetly, the taste reminding me of luxuriously long summer evenings spent with my friends. I smile at the memories, but then a gloom settles over me. I will probably never see any of my friends again.

I busy myself with eating the food, which is delicious. I eat until I can't eat anymore, then lean back in my chair and look at the other people around the table. Some of the victors are coming back to me now, not specifically names but images of their games. I wonder at how it is that I barely remember the games that must haunt their dreams. In the early light of a new day, I can clearly see the heavy weights these victors carry: the shaking of their hands, the unfocused quality to their eyes.

Alec is still eating, enthusiastically but slower than I did. Andromeda has finished her small plateful, and is now eyeing me. When our eyes meet she smiles that shark grin.

"You'll meet your stylist today Katri! They're all so wonderful at their jobs. In fact I think their job is one of the most important in the event!" She trills. Gelsey sits at my side, and looks up from her food with a sly grin. She nudges me, and her elbows are strangely sharp.

"We girls love getting made up don't we, Katri?" she says sweetly. The despair I noticed around the other victors I don't recognise around Gelsey. She looks at me like I'm prey. I watch the deft, vicious way she tears strips of meat from the lamb chop she holds in her hands, her blood red fingernails glistening, and can all too clearly imagine the meat as human flesh. I shudder. Andromeda just nods enthusiastically, not hearing the insincerity in her voice.

"It was my favourite part of the games," another chips in, and all the victors laugh. I feel a red flush creep over my cheeks. I'm embarrassed but I'm not sure why.

An elder victor slaps Alec on the back, grinning conspiratorially.

"Believe me boy; they take hair from places you don't want no one but your girlfriend to see-"

"We're almost there!" Andromeda squeals, her voice chiming loudly over the man's words and the laughter of the other victors. Alec's cheeks are flushed, and I can't help but join in, my own laughter mingling in with that of the victors.

The easy way they talk to one another reminds me of myself and my friends, and for a few moments it's easy to pretend I'm somewhere else.

But then the moment is over, and the victors are distracted.

"We're here," One of them says, and a hush descends over the group. Some of them turn to me and Alec, pitying smiles on their lips. But most avert their gaze, and I know how hopeless they believe us to be.

➳

I watch as Demeter pops another chocolate into her mouth. It's rounded, with a sugar flower the size of my fingernail atop it. She makes a satisfied sound, smacking her lips together.

"They're gorgeous aren't they?" Lucien grins devilishly. "I can't believe my sister didn't want them! Apparently she's on the District 4 diet,"

"Oh, I've heard about that one!" Saida gushes, plucking another candy from the delicately wrapped box. "That's the one where you only eat the scallops isn't it? Ooh, my friend is on it, and he's been to District 4, and he says it's very authentic."

The Capitol prep team are exuberant, and extravagant, embellished with shiny clothes and scarlet face make-up, a trend that's popular in the Capitol. Their hair is dyed a similar hue, and styled into twisted geometric shapes balancing precariously atop their heads. In short, they look ridiculous.

I'm in a foul mood. When I first arrived, they acted so horrified it was as if I'd killed someone.

The again, I guess that isn't much cause for horror in the Capitol.

"Honestly, look at those eyebrows!"

"Forget the eyebrows, look at her nails! They're so...dirty!"

"Have they even heard of bathing in district 9?"

Frankly, it felt a little uncalled for. Eventually they stopped complaining and started working, pushing me into a bathtub filled with a thick, coffee coloured liquid that stung my skin and made my eyes water. They scrubbed my body from head to toe with scratchy sponges, and then wedged me into a second bath which I emerged from covered in a transparent substance that stuck to my body. When they peeled it away, my skin had the same pinkish hue as a baby's. And that's when they began waxing.

They spent the better part of two hours removing hair from all over my body - my mind flashed back to the man's joke on the train - until I was certain that there was no hair on me except that on my head and what was left of my eyebrows.

For the most part, they ignored me, which suited me just fine. I didn't want to join in their needless chatter, squawking on about parties and clothes and how excited they were for this year's games. But now they were finished, and all that was left was for me to meet my stylist.

Half an hour passes, and I'm about to open my mouth to say something despite what Lugh said, when the doors slide open.

"Look at you! Much better!" The voice is affected with the Capitol accent and I turn to face it. And then I stop short. Because surely this is not a real person walking towards me.

My stylist's face is perfect, sure, the features seamlessly sized and aligned in his rounded face. But it's that fake brand of perfection that everything in the Capitol possesses, and it makes me feel uncomfortable to look at. Once he is close up, I can clearly see the oddness of this man's face - his puffy lips, the surreal smoothness and the non-existent wrinkles, when he is at least fifty years old.

His hair is black, run through with streaks of blood red and fashioned into three stiff triangles. He wears a stylishly cut inky black suit on his plump, rounded frame, and a cluster of red jewels are nestled in the hollow of his throat, giving the grisly illusion of his throat having been slashed. When he smiles, his teeth are so white they hurt my eyes.

"Look. At. You." He grins, and I try to avoid staring directly at his teeth. "So beautiful. So young." He clutches a hand to his chest dramatically. "It will be an honour to style you."

"Thanks," I stammer out, my eyes resting on the jewels around his neck. He notices.

"Do you like them? They're to honour my last tribute," He says, a small smile on his lips, tears in his eyes. I can't find it in me to sympathise with this flamboyant Capitol man. "Romulus, he was called. From District 3. His throat was slashed on the first day, at the cornucopia." He sighs, a long, weary sound. "It's a shame. He had the most beautiful hands I ever saw."

The prep team nods their agreement. I decide to say nothing.

"I'm Katri," I say pointedly, and he starts.

"Why, yes, of course, how silly of me." He smiles again. "I'm Julius. Now, let's get to work."

Four hours later, and I'm deemed ready for the Capitol. The tribute parades are held every year in order to show off the tributes, and being from District 9 - where our industry is grain - it's a chance to look stupid.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror reproachfully. It could be worse, I guess. The tributes from district 12 are always dressed like coal miners, which never gains any favours from the sponsors.

But I do look rather silly. My hair has been pulled back from my face, braided into a looping net that entwines with the crescent moon headpiece atop my head. I notice how its geometric shape resembles the fashions I see in my prep team.

"It's to symbolise the roundness of the bread you make!" Julius assures me, and I nod, unconvinced.

Shimmering silver makeup is applied generously on my eyelids and lips, and big feathery lashes have been stuck over my own. It's nothing less than I expected from my extravagant stylist, but the costume is really something else.

And it has to be called a costume, because it's so gaudy, so garish, so completely and utterly ridiculous that there's no way it can be simply referred to as an outfit.

The bottom of the costume is almost normal. The full skirt floats down to around my knees, the slinky fabric making the dress appear as if it is rippling with every movement. It's a metallic silver colour; I suppose to resemble the scythes we use to harvest the grain. The whole concept of the outfit seems a little far-fetched, but the top is really the cherry on the extravagant cake.

The bodice of the dress is tight fitted, woven with strands of glittering gold and silver intermixed with darker, underlying tones of grey, the effect being that the interwoven strands resemble a miniature - albeit bedazzled - field of grain. The neckline disappears into an explosion of ruffles that are matched by the ones around my wrists.

I look so stupid I'm surprised no one laughs.

But the reaction from my prep team is the opposite: instead they crowd round me and gush. When Andromeda comes to collect me, she stops dead in her tracks.

"Oh, Katri!" She breathes, gathering me close in her glitzy arms. Her ropes of hair have been twirled around her head, standing upright and - coupled with the ginormous heels she wears - making her at least seven feet tall. "You look so beautiful! Oh, the Capitol is just going to adore you!"

"Erm, thank you," I manage, teetering after her as she leads me to the elevator, Julius following behind.

Only two of the four victors are stood waiting, Gelsey and Lugh. I see that they're stifling laughs when I join them.

"You look lovely, Katri," Lugh smirks, and I think about how whilst it is against the rules for tributes to fight, there's no rule preventing me from punching Lugh.

As I'm thinking this Alec arrives, trailed by his own stylist. Of course, he would manage to make this ridiculous costume look good, his back straight and his face lit up with what I've quickly realised is his usual confident grin.

We take the elevator to the stables where the chariots are kept mostly in silence, save for Andromeda's compliments and the stylists babble. In the mirror opposite us, I notice that Alec is trying to make eye contact, but I ignore it until the elevator doors open, and for the first time I'm faced with all the tributes.

I have no time to look around, because I'm being corralled over to a metallic grey chariot attached to two horses whose coats could only be described as silver. I absentmindedly wonder if they've been genetically engineered that way - like the other Capitol mutts - or if they've been sprayed specially for the occasion.

Probably the former, the Capitol never does anything half-hearted.

Julius helps me up onto the chariot, showing me where to place my hand so I don't fall off. I'm determined to grip on tight, they'll throw me into the arena even if my bones are broken from a fall.

Looking around, I realise our costumes aren't the worst. These chariot rides aren't everything, but they do help you make an impression.

The first chariots are beginning to pull away towards the gates; I can already hear the roaring crowds of the Capitol beyond. The horses are so well trained the don't even need guiding as they pull us into formation, wedged in between the sky blue chariot of District 8 and the bottle green one of District 10. As our chariot pulls it's way forwards I stumble a little, unsteady in my heels. My shoulder knocks into Alec's, and he helps me to get my balance back.

"Thank you," I say gratefully, to which he acknowledges only by slightly dipping his head and shrugging me off.

I realise that whatever short moments of companionship we had on the train have been severed, forgotten in his mind as we head out to the games. And, finding myself surrounded by the twenty-two tributes, all of whom - including Alec - must die if I want to get home, I think I agree with him.

I stand up straighter in the chariot, determined to forget anything that might make Alec my friend, and lift up my chin as we roll out into the deafening din of the Capitol.

The first thing I register is the noise: cheering and chanting over the sound of drums. Other tributes are waving tentatively to the crowd, and so I do the same, twisting my lips up into a convincing beam.

We've made it almost halfway round the circuit when I notice that most of the attention seems to be on our chariot.

My heartbeat slows when I grasp that the crowd is chanting Alec's name. Thousands of people scream his name as he waves, winning them over with his quiet confidence and charming grin.

I think back to Lugh and Gelsey on the train, how quickly their attention turned from me to Alec. How quickly they could decide who is worth helping.

Without fully thinking it through, I grab Alec's hand in my own, and raise our interlocked fists into the air. The crowd's reaction is instantaneous: the general excitement turns to one loud roar of "District 9!"

In my peripheral vision I can see Alec looking at me, but now the crowd is screaming my name - my full name - which they bothered to look for in their brochures. Raising one hand off of the chariot hold, I lift my other hand into the air to wave, to catch kisses, to blow them back.

I figure that at least if I fall, I'll drag Alec down with me.


	4. Chapter 4

The girl from seven has a cut lip, and it’s only been half an hour into the training. The boy tribute from her district nicked her whilst they were throwing knives, and despite the apologies that tumbled out of his mouth I’m unconvinced it wasn’t on purpose.

 

Lugh said the careers were lethal, but this year it seems like they’re not the only ones.

 

Sizing them up properly for the first time, when we’re not in costume or atop chariots, I realise that I’m not at a disadvantage size-wise. Sure, I’m not as well fed as any of the careers, but at least I have a few pounds on some of the more underfed girl tributes – particularly those from districts 10 to 12, the outer lying districts.

 

But compared to the boys…well, I wouldn’t want to be caught in a hand to hand fight. I can only hope there are plenty of places to hide.

 

I try to squash the mini waves of panic I can feel rising through me: attacks of anxiety that overwhelm me every time I watch a career bury a spear in a humanoid dummies chest, or see one of the other tributes learn poisons and weapon crafting. All of them want me dead. Even Alec.

 

Ever since my show on the chariot, he seems to have decided I’m a friend to him. Something that definitely wasn’t my intention. But I return his smiles and share his laughter, and hope that it’s not just a ploy to take me off my guard so I won’t suspect it when he slits my throat.

 

Lugh instructed that we make our way round the stations together. I take this time to study Alec. He wasn’t lying about his strengths on the train: he sweeps the edible plants tests without batting an eyelid, and impresses the snares instructor with his knowledge. He expertly wields a scythe, slashing his way through a hoard of holographic dummies with ease, each of them shattering into thousands of tiny blood red blocks at his feet.

 

And I bumble along behind him, mismatching berries and roots and tangling my hands in coils of rope. I know that everyone is taking stock of my weaknesses, as I do theirs, and if I were them I’d probably laugh at how pitiful I am. All my bravado from the chariots is gone. Take away the costumes that link me with them, take away my convincing smile and I’m nothing. Just a mindless obstacle on the path to becoming a victor for the careers, for Alec, for the crafty girl from 10 and the muscular boy from 8.

 

“Katri, it’s your turn.” I turn my head, and Alec is at my shoulder. Several other tributes have gathered behind me, and I realise they are all waiting for me to take my turn in the weapons chamber.

 

“Now?” I whisper to him, my voice coming out shaky. “With everybody watching? You remember what Lugh said.”

 

Don’t show the others your strengths. You need the element of surprise on your sides. I see Alec’s unconcerned expression, and know that his friendship over the past few days have just been acts of kindness. He thinks I’ve no strengths to show them. So he’s being kind, compassionate Alec, who’ll comfort his fellow district tribute as she heads for certain death.

 

I decide I hate him.

 

Storming through the glass doors to the weapons room, I snatch a scythe off of the rack. The handle is longer than the ones we use to harvest back in my district, the cylindrical handle almost as tall as I am. It feels odd in my hand at first, but after a few test sweeps I get the hang of it, and I figure the added height only gives me extra reach. A wicked blade tops it, a semi-circular curve that glints a metallic dark grey in the artificial light. I step up onto the podium, trying to ignore the faces that surround the glass door, every eye turned in my direction.

 

The doors seal shut, and the lights flicker and dim. A voice informs me I have ten seconds until the holographs begin. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

 

Five…four…three…two…one…

 

 

 

On instinct I swing around in a big arc, sweeping my scythe through two of the holographs and scattering them at my feet.

 

They move soundlessly, I realise, as out of the corner of my eye I see one more advancing. My swing brought me off balance, and I almost tumble off of the podium. Spreading my weight between my legs, I chop the scythe up in a jerky movement that slits the approaching opponent from navel to neck.

 

But more are coming, in thick waves of two or three at a time. I have a slight advantage being atop the podium, but the weight of the weapon makes it hard to keep my balance.

 

I finish off five more of the holographs before I fall off the podium. And then I’m in the thick of it, surrounded by so many of them and I can’t move fast enough and then-

 

I register a sharp pain in my stomach, and realise that one of them has “stabbed” me. Fatally too, I presume, seeing how the lights turn back up around me and the holographs crumble to the floor.

 

Slotting the scythe back into place, I wait for the doors to slide open before stepping out.

 

Alec is regarding me with a look I haven’t seen before. It doesn’t quite fit the way his features are usually aligned, doesn’t quite match his standard easy grin.

 

“You didn’t tell me you could use a scythe,” His tone is almost accusational as he drags me by the arm to a more quiet area: the shelter building station.

 

“I’m from district 9, Alec,” I reply, feigning a calm I don’t feel. “I was practically born with one in my hand, same as you were.”

 

He looks like he’s about to reply, when the head trainer – a tall, athletic looking man – calls us for lunch. So instead he just turns on his heel and leaves me standing by myself.

 

➳

 

Andromeda is all too happy to compliment us at dinner. She practically gushes with pride, boasting about how several of the game makers had noticed us, and how she already had a few potential sponsors lined up for us. But game makers and sponsors are hard to concentrate on; when my mind is so focused on the twenty-two other tributes in that room who desperately want us dead.

 

“So, give me the details.” Lugh finally cuts in over Andromeda’s chatter, leaving her with a put out expression. “Who’s our competition?”

 

“The careers, for a start.” I say, capturing his attention. “I don’t know much about districts one and two, but the tributes from four are pretty lethal looking. Otto and Marjani, they’re called. They both seem to favour using swords.”

 

“And they’ll both know how to fish too, if the arena’s more tropical.”

 

“It most likely won’t be. They don’t like to use water-based arenas. It makes the tributes a bit…slippery to get a hold of,” Lugh nods thoughtfully, and I can almost see Alec mentally crossing fishing off as an advantage in his head. “Anything else?”

 

“The girl from 10. She’s dangerous.” Alec adds, nodding his head. “I was watching her earlier. She can use the bow and arrow pretty well, but I don’t think that’s her main talent. And she’s smart, I heard the plants and snares instructors discussing her.”

 

“Okay, so we’ve got the careers – emphasis on district four – and district 10. Who else?”

 

“The boy from 8.” I say quietly, and both of them whip their heads toward me, eyebrows raised questioningly. It’s like they’d forgotten I was here. “His name is Hayden. And he’s strong, I saw him chucking the weights around like they were nothing. I’m not sure what his survival skills are like, but he’s a sponsor favourite for sure, and if he jumps you in a fight…you’d most likely lose.”

 

Lugh looks unconvinced.

 

“So we’ve got the careers, four, ten, and eight, if Katri’s to be believed. You two better get some rest, I expect tomorrow for you to seek out your advantage. Everyone has one, and the sooner you figure yours out, the easier it’ll be for you to…well, the easier it’ll be.”

 

➳

 

Most of the tributes eat alone. It’s strange that some of the best meals of our lives are simultaneously the worst.

 

And for most of us, the last.

 

The careers eat together, as I expected them to. They show off their alliance in the way they talk rowdily with their voices raised and shrill laughter. I hear them discussing the other tributes. Otto – a tall, wiry boy from four with rumpled black curls and a lazy smirk – seems the most interested in this aspect: his eyes gleaming with an undisguised malice as they place bets on who will die first.

 

I hear them laughing about the youngest tribute, a miniscule twelve-year old boy from 3, and I hear how Otto tells his fellow district tribute that she can have him. Marjani grins right back at him, the malice in her eyes as plain as day, as she tosses her bronze curls and contemplates the best way to kill him.

 

I lose my appetite.

 

Sometimes they extend their invitations. On the first day they sought out Hayden, who didn’t even acknowledge them. That threw them, even if for a moment. I knew then that they marked him as one of their first pack kills.

 

I sit alone, as do all of the other tributes. As does Alec. I thought about asking him to join me, or maybe just sitting down next to him myself. I know I’m not supposed to be talking to him, but the thought of sitting alone made me feel so lost and alone I could hardly bear it.

 

But that’s when the girl from district 10 asked to join me.

 

“Do you mind if I sit?” She asked, already settling down into the seat opposite me. “Iris Rivendell. From district 10. And this is Leven, from district 3.”

 

The two of them look so similar they could be sisters, with their elfin facial features and big, dark eyes. They share the same dark curls, but whilst Leven’s reach down to her waist, Iris’s are closely cropped around her ears. Iris lounges in the seat opposite me, but Leven sits upright, listening attentively to her every word. It’s clear who the leader is.

 

“Katri. From district 9,” I venture, neatly chopping up my potatoes. “What’s this about?”

 

“We’ve formed an alliance. And we want you.” Iris says, her gaze slicing into me. Her eyes are dark, almost black, like two cuts of onyx. Everything about her is calculated. I could see why Alec would be wary of her.

 

“You want me?” I ask, my voice monotonous. I know what my answer will be. “Why?”

 

“We saw you yesterday. When you were using the scythe.”

 

“When I fooled around with a weapon I’m ill-equipped to handle and got beat? Still not understanding why you want me in your little gang.”

 

“Please don’t pretend to be modest.” Iris’s tone is controlled, but one look into her unforgiving eyes and I know she’s losing her patience. I’m not following her script, and so I’m not impressing. “Look, I’ve sort of got a plan. Put it this way: I’m the brains, Leven’s the secret weapon, and you’re-”

 

“I’m the what? The brawns? If you think I can protect you when you do whatever this ‘secret plan’ is, you can forget it. I’m not sticking my neck on the line so you can prove you’re worth a couple of sponsors.” I laugh, leaning back in my seat and meeting her levelled gaze. Leven shifts nervously as Iris’s lips become more pursed, until finally she lets out a laugh of her own that surprises both of us.

 

“Don’t be so petty.” Iris leans forward and lowers her voice, so it becomes more conspiratorial. She sounds like she’s doing me a favour, but I don’t buy it. “Look, we all saw you with that scythe. In the games you’re not going to be surrounded like that, so I reckon if it’s just a few of them you can pick them off easy.” I raise an eyebrow at her, unconvinced. Iris lets out a little huff, the cracks in her steady composure showing. “A fair warning: it’s not just us who noticed. Why else do you think the career pack enlisted your buddy?”

 

Puzzled, I glance over at the large group. Sat amongst the very people we’ve hated since we could understand the games sits Alec, laughing and joking like he’s known these Capitol lapdogs forever. Like he’s one of them. My vision goes red, my fists clench tightly to the side of the table. How could he?

 

When I look back at Iris, I see her satisfied grin.

 

“What exactly is your plan?”

 

“Ah. That’s on a need to know basis. So you’ll think about it?”

 

I glance over at Alec once again, hoping to catch his eye. Instead all I get is Otto, his grin knife sharp and directed at me. I quickly avert my gaze, my eyes landing back on Leven – who looks hopeful – and Iris, who just looks smug.

 

“I’ll think about it.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on AO3, and my first Hunger Games fanfiction! I'm really excited to write this, and I hope you enjoy the end result, please don't forget to leave reviews:)


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